A Short Film by Layla Peykamian and Ana Hoppert Flores
Artist Statement
Layla Peykamian and Ana Hopper Flores
Our approach to producing, writing, and filming was based in sincere collaboration. This was often done through connecting over the experience of being women of color and having been impacted by Alzhimers/Dementia. As filmmaking partners, we met at least once a week throughout the duration of the project’s creation to chat over tea and develop the story of Abuela. We also strived to facilitate friendship and collaboration within our cast and crew. Because Abuela focuses on the relationship between two women, to authentically tell their story we thought it important to have a cast/crew who were predominantly women, and could connect to Nayeli and Amelia’s lived experience. Having conversations on and off set about womanhood and culture were integral to creating the story of Abuela.
Abuela is also, first and foremost, a visually-driven film. We focused on emphasizing strong visual motifs and emotionally evocative color pallets to guide the narrative, with sparingly placed and carefully chosen dialogue. By using light and shadow to our advantage, we were able to create some beautiful visual interest in a few, otherwise “simple” shots, such as the kitchen scenes. This, in combination with our genre of neo-realism, was done in an effort to make the audience feel like they were slipping into a vivid daydream.
While taking inspiration from our own cross-cultural lived experiences was fundamental to solidifying the trajectory Abuela was to take, we also looked to directors to guide our storymaking. We especially dialed in on directors whose works balance heavier, contemplative moments with lighter ones, and were influenced by films that depict the kind of joy, magic, and hardship that can only be found in girlhood. Snippets from movies like Lady Bird (Greta Gerwig, 2017), Because of Winn-Dixie (Wayne Wang, 2005), Everything Everywhere All At Once (Daniel Kwan, Daniel Scheinert, 2022), and Titanic (James Cameron, 1997) speckled our creative choices. From our audition sides, to our equipment selection, to our edits in the cutting room, these guiding films edged us to weave a story reminiscent of our own childhoods, distresses, and dreams. We also studied movies like Chantal Akerman’s Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles (1983), Kelly Reichardt’s Old Joy (2006), and Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Biutiful (2010) to help us gauge how to best ground our film within the neo-realistic conventions that are so key to Abuela’s tone and pace.
We hope viewers will take note of this neo-realistic nature of the film, noticing the multiple long shots and gentle pacing. We also hope they recognize the subtle ways we’ve included the implications of Alzheimer’s/Dementia on the character of Amelia, such as her loss of the ability to speak English in the “present” portions of the film. Our use of a cooler color palette for the present, versus warmer tones for the past is an easter egg we also think viewers will catch on to. Lastly, we hope viewers take note of the musical motif we’ve implemented into the score, and how the motif changes and evolves based on the context in which it plays.
Inspired by the split-cutting style of the dissected material at play, “Apologize to the Pork” uses films Tampopo (1985), Daisies (1966), and One Sings, the Other Doesn’t (1977) to visually analyze the use of food in film in relation to discussions of sex and gender.
Divided into three sections, the video essay explores the presented films’ depiction of (1) gendered expectations of eating etiquette and the performance of perception, (2) the role of gender and class in domesticity, and (3) food as an erotic tool, paralleling food play with body play.
Harking on the writings of Carole Counihan and Steven Kaplan in their piece Food and Gender: Identity and Power (2003), our work underscores scenes that play with the “power relations around food [which] mirror the power of the sexes” (Counihan & Kaplan). Showcasing the power of domesticity that food highlights, we intended on including the portrayal of “woman as caretaker” in Tampopo and One Sings, the Other Doesn’t in contrast with the rebellious eroticism of food play in Daisies.
Delving into the role of food as a tool for gendered and sexual defiance, we build on Rosalind Galt’s theory of pretty (2009). Much like how the scene is a character whose “attractive skin [is deemed] false, shallow, feminine, or apolitical” (Galt), food, both in its labor and consumption, carries range in its character, with Tampopo using it to portray delicate, “pretty”, creation, versus Daisies that utilizes its defacement to provoke against expectations of the feminine ideal.
We ask what it means to embrace the intentional of both care and destruction in food and gender.
After an unproductive summer of 2022, I was searching for answers that I should have been producing. What is the underlying cause of my indolence? How do I overcome it? Are these questions just another form of procrastination? Although I wrote several screenplays, and improved as a writer, I hadn’t directed any audiovisual material (at least not in college). Worst of all, I was entering my senior year! “It’s Your Move” afforded me a last-minute opportunity to regroup. The story, which started as a solitary image of a lonely chess player in a coffee shop, expanded into an encapsulation of my filmic obsessions: chess in the mise en scene, crises of identity, circular structure, long takes, “pure” cinematic sequences, etc. Still, even as a burst of inspiration hit me, and my fingers vigorously typed, there was the lingering question of how to film my screenplay. What followed, if the making of “It’s Your Move” could be condensed into one clause, would be an attempt to balance pragmatic and artistic concerns. That we would achieve this balance, and win best picture among 20 student films in the Carolina Film Association, was a (very) pleasant surprise.
CHESS
Chess constitutes the backbone of “It’s Your Move.” I remember accompanying my Father, a competitive player, to coffee shops, dusty back rooms at the YMCA, and other oddball hosts of the Greensboro Chess Club. His eyes, furiously analyzing infinite possibilities on the board, revealed to me the narrative possibilities of chess. The unceasing tick of the chess clock provided the equivalent of a film run time. The pieces were an inherently combative element of mise en scene. The more I looked at both the board and the faces of the individuals playing on it, the more I identified a clear beginning, middle, and end to their games: oh, that’s a story alright!
Chess provides both superficial and complex qualities to “It’s Your Move.” The aesthetic appeal of the board and pieces is accentuated by the black and white photography. The game is an obstacle in the narrative that the protagonist must overcome to fulfill his relationship. Just the aforementioned placement of the board in between the characters implies a level of conflict (making my job as screenwriter easier.) However, although these functions are valuable, I wanted to penetrate deeper and weave the DNA of the game into the screenplay. I decided that chess would be embedded into the film’s structure: the beginning of the film (opening), middle (tactics), and end (endgame) reflect the progression of a chess match. This decision held pragmatic and artistic advantages. Practically, the three-act structure allowed me to easily pitch the film to prospective cast and crew, even if the screenplay held unconventional elements. Artistically, it made sense for this character, who can only understand the world through his obsession, to reflect on his relationship through the lens of chess. As the film progresses, the lines between chess and reality are blurred, and we discover that relationships, like chess games, can be undone by seemingly innocuous mistakes made at the beginning.
FORM
I have always held the audiovisual powers of film as paramount. While studying screenwriting, I was frustrated by the overwhelming emphasis on narrative techniques that can be found in other artistic mediums. This is not to discount narrative structure, which is of utmost importance to “It’s Your Move.” But I knew my practice had to be consistent with my theory, and so form would be valued.
Regarding cinematography, it took me a while to choose the aspect ratio of “It’s Your Move.” 4:3 seemed apt, but I had committed myself to refusing an aesthetic choice if I couldn’t rationalize its use. Then I realized that the square shape found in 4:3 resembled any of the 64 squares on a chess board. Our two characters are framed in a square shape, and consequently stuck in it like pieces on a board. This formal choice reflects the arc of the film’s narrative, wherein chess progressively consumes Alexander’s waking life until the two are inseparable. The choice of black and white was a more obvious quality, as chess pieces are conventionally black and white. Black and white also lends itself to more inherently expressive imagery, in a way that color wouldn’t have for our no-budget production.
The editing room was where everything came together. I made sure that there were no unnecessary/arbitrary cuts, as I wanted the performances and camera movement to feel natural. Caleb Schilly’s score, which we applied at the last minute, fit seamlessly into the film. When Uriel Jimenez-Lemus, our incredibly talented editor, put the last piece of music over the final scene, it fit so well without any adjustment that I could only chalk the result to divine intervention (the film gods could sense that our editing room activities, like Alexander and Roxies’ relationship, was on the clock).
INFLUENCES
I was influenced by several films while making “It’s Your Move.” On two occasions, I explicitly allude to my influences. The lighting gag that accentuates Alexander’s eyes in the opening scene, though executed in slightly different fashion, is pulled from the seminal Hollywood noir Detour (Edgar G. Ulmer, 1945.) Though there are no femme fatales or murder plots in “It’s Your Move,” the allusion to Detour immediately imbues my film with the colors of existential dread and mystery commonly found in the noir genre. The close-up of the back of Roxie’s head, which introduces a long take, evokes compositions from Jean-Luc Godard’s Vivre sa vie (1962), a film that is also largely set in a coffee shop. Both films, in addition to aesthetic influence, were also inspiring on a practical level. More specifically, they find creative ways to express their ideas on a low budget. Detour is famous for originating in Hollywood’s poverty row, and the cast and crew of “It’s Your Move” adopted that blue-collar ethos while making the film.
THE ENDGAME
I would be remiss to exclude invaluable members of our cast and crew. My girlfriend, Dorian Varney, and roommate/lifelong friend, Justin Geletko, were the first to hear of “It’s Your Move.” Not only were they intrigued by the heady concept, they both agreed to work on the project despite holding no prior filmmaking experience. Ben Ketchum and Zoe Matney, our leads, approached the film like consummate professionals. They came to set with their lines memorized and their characters explored; Ben and Zoe made my life as a director easy, and went the extra mile–or miles, who knows how many steps we took–when they paced around empty classrooms during rehearsals with me, in search of the truth of these characters. Matthew Gebbia–who you can read about in this feature!–talked with me for hours upon hours regarding visual approaches. There are many others–thanks Duncan for your lighting expertise!–that made “It’s Your Move” such an enriching experience. I hope you enjoy the hard work we all put into this project. I wish the kid me, absorbed in his literature as much as Dad was the chess board, could see the connection he made between the two came to fruition. Maybe he has.
When planning Homegrown, I wanted to make a monster horror film, but I also knew this would be a challenge, especially with a limited time frame and college student budget. I originally planned a vampire-conversion film resembling early monster films like Nosferatu (F.W. Murnau, 1922) embracing gothic noir aspects of deep shadows and stark lights. Due to time, budget, and personnel limitations, the monster was forced to evolve into something more feasible onscreen.
As I began searching for a new monster, I was inspired by my windowsill houseplants to create an ecological horror entity. I started planning a film built around practical effects, a creature made up of plant matter designed to be a spectre of vegetation only seen in the shadows. This monster would be represented primarily through vine appendages, disembodied and tentacled extensions of the larger entity.
Dread, Suspense, and Horror
When choosing how to represent this creature, I wanted to create a sense of horror focused around dread rather than explicit fear or violent imagery. In her essay on horror, Cynthia Freeland writes “dread, unlike anxiety, involves an anticipated encounter with something ‘profound’ — something particularly powerful, grave, and inexorable … a threat that is not only unidentified and powerful but also unnerving because it is deeply abhorrent to reason” (191-192). I wanted to spend the majority of the film building this sense of dread and impending doom through glimpses of the creature—vines twisting through the darkness, creeping and surrounding the protagonist.
The music and the sound effects build as the protagonist sleeps, completely unaware of the potential danger. I used the concept of a nightmare as a midway release point of this tension, a moment for the audience to breathe and to question the reality of the creature. This moment is brief, and the tension almost immediately returns as the monster is revealed to have been real after all. As we realize the protagonist is still in danger, the final bit of tension culminates in a reveal of the monster, a vegetative humanoid with piercing, glowing eyes.
The Uncanny
The uncanny horror of unnatural plants has been portrayed many times in film, from the carnivorous plant of Little Shop of Horrors (Frank Oz, 1986), to the demonic tree of The Evil Dead (Sam Raimi, 1981). Portraying plant life as malevolent, intelligent, and aggressive builds a general feeling of the uncanny. Plant life is a familiar thing all around us, growing slowly, staying relatively still, and rarely causing harm. The high-speed crawling movement of the vines, a complete departure from the normal stillness of plants, stands out to the audience as unnatural and uncanny.
Freud defines the uncanny effect as frightening things that lead back to something with which we are familiar. My goal was to break the connection between the traditional understanding of a plant’s nature and how they exist in the world of the film, to add dimensions of dread and horror to the film experience. The strange behaviors of the vines in the film—speed, aggression, invasion under blankets and over the face and eyes—preys on our human fear of nature invading our shelter.
Gothic Ambiguity
In his essay on The Innocents (Clayton, 1961), John C. Tibbetts quotes Henry James, “so long as the events are veiled the imagination will run riot and depict all sorts of horrors. . . but as soon as the veil is lifted, all mystery disappears and with it the sense of terror” (104). Similar to The Innocents (Clayton, 1961), I wanted to use the veil of ambiguity to question the reliability of the protagonist, while also having the opportunity to tear the veil away to reveal my monster. In the end, the moment is brief as our protagonist startles awake, as if from a nightmare, to a well lit and otherwise peaceful bedroom. The monstrous vines are (almost) completely gone, and he believes he imagined the entire sequence.. I immediately break the moment when he swings his legs off the bed and steps onto a straggling vine, which slowly pulls away to escape under the door. The ambiguity and doubt is quenched—the monster must be real.
I chose to withhold the monster until the very end, particularly to raise more questions outside the space of the film. Is the monster part of the plant the protagonist stole from the forest? Is it a spirit of the forest, here to enact revenge for greedily taking a part of nature? Is it all a nightmare? I wanted these questions to increase the fear of the monster, without fully removing the veil of ambiguity, as Henry James called it, which allows the audience to imagine something far scarier than what I could conjure up on screen.
Works Cited
Freeland, Cynthia. “Horror and Art-Dread.” The Horror Film, edited by Stephen Prince, Ithaca, NY: Rutgers University Press, 2004, pp. 189-205.
Freud, Sigmund. The Uncanny. Translated by David McLintock. New York: Penguin Books, 2003.
Tibbetts, John C. “The Old Dark House: The Architecture of Ambiguity in The Turn of the Screw and The Innocents.” British Horror Cinema. Edited by Steve Chibnall and Julian Petley, Routledge, 2009. pp. 99-116.
For additional examples of Evan’s multimedia storytelling, visit www.evanodavison.com.
In making a short essay film which took my darling dog as its subject, I wanted to make sure of a few things. I wanted to avoid a chummy, feel-good home video that forsook the complexities and depths of my shared life with Vincent. I also wanted to make sure that I didn’t take my subject too seriously, and wander into a swirly ramble about animal life—a topic I have spent much of college thinking about deeply and philosophically, and which I find grounds for very rich thought. However, I think I erred on the side of serious and philosophical, and I hope this is forgivable in light of how dear and serious this topic is to me. Finally, I was also wary of speaking for my dog in a way that was irresponsible and childish, frankly. Expanding the conceptual scope of the film to my relations with animals more broadly, instead of just with Vincent, hopefully offers some perspective on the topic while also demonstrating the care I want to take in relating to all animals.
In beginning this project, I didn’t realize just quite how much relevant footage I had captured over the course of many years of travels, and quotidian documentation of my life. I was very pleased with how much footage I was able to pull from previous years and adventures, which I think makes the film more interesting and gave me much more material—literal and conceptual—to work with. It also took the pressure off of filming during this semester, and skirted the issue of ending up with all relatively similar footage of my dog. Thus grew the project from a focus on my dog only to a contemplation of my life with animals more broadly.
The voiceover was the last element to be completed and I was resistant to it for a while because of insecurity of hearing my own voice in a powerful, direct way, frankly. I worry still that it is too much of a monologue and not a dialogue. The “you” I address in my film is my dog—and so my interlocutor is both inside and outside the film. But my interlocutor(s) (my dog and other animals) have no way of replying to me by language and engaging in a conventional dialogue. This is a tricky place to be in as the filmmaker. Although I think my voiceover invites viewers into a line of thought or questioning, it does not address them directly and interpolate them. It is more self-questioning, exploratory, and intellectual in a way that aligns with the voiceovers of essay films directed by Chris Marker, Harun Farocki, Agnès Varda, and others. It is also playful in moments, I hope.
Not that all essay films have voiceovers, but I felt that this was one of the most accessible ways for me to make my film essayistic. The images in my film are also essayistic in that they do not form discreet scenes and aren’t chronological or continuous. The footage draws from places I’ve travelled over several years: Palau, Fiji, South Africa, New Mexico, Maine, Vietnam, and North Carolina. This global scope, which I am lucky to have accessed in previous years, relates my film to other essay films which were born of a globetrotting filmmaking career—I have in mind Kristin Johnson’s Cameraperson (2016) and Marker’s Sans Soleil (1983). From those two films I borrowed the intermittent use of black leader to signal a pause or change. My film is in a few parts or chapters, organized by similarity of shots and themes. I would call the sections: water, land, sky, domestic animals, wild animals, dogs, Vincent. The film moves from the universal to the specific, and invokes the idea of evolution early on to parallel this directionality. Finally, although I set out to make a portrait of my dog, this project ended up taking on larger ideas.
I was also inspired by the work of Terrence Malick, which I say modestly, because I know it can’t achieve such a level of beauty and artistry. Nonetheless I hoped my images and voiceover would bring viewers into a similarly poetic, musing, awe-struck kind of state—which is at least what I experience when watching Malick’s films. I of course also wanted to honor Montaigne’s original essay project, which was fundamentally linked to his relationship with a friend, Étienne de La Boétie. In making a film about my dog, I am also thinking about friendship, specifically that which exists between humans and extra-human creatures.
